What Keeps Me Up at NIght

In Mexico, when we toast we say "Salud, Amor y Pesetas," which translates to "Health, Love and Wealth," always said in that exact order.  The order of the words is particularly telling because without your health, you cannot enjoy either love or wealth, and without love, wealth can become empty.  In fact, the toast usually becomes shortened to simply "Salud," a wish that is also echoed in France, and even an Israel, where people toast "to Life."  It is no accident that health is one of the few universal issues which binds all of humanity together.  It is also no accident that one of the major issues facing our country as our presidential election comes closer is our nation's healthcare.  

Since I started this journey I have spent many nights laying awake, wondering what all the uninsured people in this country do when they are diagnosed with cancer or any other disease that requires long-term, expensive treatment.  Now luckily I'm a girl with resources.  I have a good job with good benefits, and a family who would support me even if I didn't have the good job with good benefits.  But the reality is that many people in this country face financial ruin and potentially lesser care when diagnosed with cancer.  In fact, statistics show that the uninsured have around a 50% greater chance of dying from cancer than those who are insured.  This means that many people could have survived had they had access or finances for better care.  It also may reflect the fact that the uninsured do not get diagnosed until later stages because they do not take advantage of early screening processes and consistent medical care. Whatever the case, this statistic means that people are not receiving basic preventative care and potentially dying unnecessarily in a country housing one of the best medical systems in the world.  This frankly makes my stomach turn.

Another statement that continues to echo through my head is what my OBGYN told me the day she broke the news that I had cancer.  I remember sitting in her office, just waiting for her to tell me my fate (which I had already guessed... doctors never ask you to come into t.heir office to tell you good news), when she said, "Well, the bad news is that it's cancer.  The good news is that you're in New York."  Does this mean that everyone else in the country is out of luck?  Now obviously this isn't the case, but when you start thinking that some people have to drive upwards of two hours to their nearest oncologist, and even people who have insurance can't get appointments for months before getting an initial consultation... well, I'll let you do the math.  

Now, I am not so naive to think that fixing these problems is an easy task.  In fact, at this moment, I am not convinced that any of the proposals being offered by our presidential candidates are viable solutions, especially in light of all the issues this country is presently facing.  That said, the discussion needs to be had, and in order to obtain a solution that maintains both the quality of our healthcare system and ensures that every citizen has access to basic care, we must participate in the discussion.  For now, our strongest voice can be heard at the ballots in November.  Whatever your vote, I hope that everyone who is eligible makes themselves heard.  In the meantime, I will toast to all of your health and hope that you will joining me also toasting to the health of our communities, no matter what your culture, language or nationality.

Thank you as always for reading.

Straight from the trenches,

DT

Thanks again for reading.

Straight from the trenches,

DT 

Cancer Friends

So one of the perks of finding out you have the Big C is becoming part of a new network of people (aka the "Survivors").  From the moment you are diagnosed, you are given a VIP card to enter into one of the most exclusive clubs in the world, the Cancer Club (CC).  Now, now, I know you all want to join, but I warn you, membership comes at a hefty price.  So I suggest you stick with Facebook or Linkedin even though I'm sure you'd like to see what happens behind our little velvet rope.  I have to admit, I was tentative to join.  People tried to recruit me by giving me countless numbers and emails of various sisters, cousins, friends, friend's dog's cousin's owner's friends, etc., but I resisted until one fateful night around a week before my surgery I broke down.  Now you would think that I would call one of the wonderful referrals that I received from people I knew, but being part of the age of technology, I opted for the anonymity of the online world.  Yes, little did you know that the Big C has all kinds of online networks for both young and old, male and female. Websites like planetcancer.org and youngsurvival.org let you link up with all kinds of people who have also received their VIP card in the mail and are waiting to give you an e-hug.  So there I was logged on to youngsurvival.org (the Young Survivors Coalition's website), which caters to pre-menopausal women diagnosed with breast cancer, frantically seeking someone to share my insanity with.  I don't remember exactly what I wrote that fateful night, but it was some tearful, panicked note about being overwhelmed and not having any idea what was going on.  As promised by the bylaws of the CC, this little note sent callously into the online universe was met with encouraging words and gentle reminders to remember to breathe (funny how you seem to forget to do that the first few weeks after finding out).  Now since my first foray behind the velvet rope of CC, I have since made some wonderful real-life friends who have proven to be an invaluable resource throughout my treatment, so please let me introduce you.  First, there is History Buff, a history PhD student at Columbia who finished her treatment over a year ago, and has always answered the phone to reassure me that I'm not in fact going crazy.  Next, there is BadAss, a fellow smart mouthed (she is smart mouthed, I am only mouthed) single girl who manages to continue doing social work in a retirement home even though her treatment is making her sicker than her 80 year old patients.  And finally there is Superhero, my chemo buddy (she changed her treatment schedule to match mine so that we can sit and gossip while we're hooked up to the drugs), who despite having the lowest blood count on the planet, manages to have more energy than my 6 year old brother.  Now I ask you, please don't be jealous.  These friends are actually crucial to helping me maintain the relationships that I already have by relieving some of the burden on my loved ones and keeping me from abusing those who care for me.  You see, these are the people I can be brutally honest with because they understand that my snippiness is not directed at them, but at my disease, and they can't take it personally because they snap right back.  We can also laugh together through our baldness, the scars and the spaciness, and pretend that our chemo sessions are cocktail hours.  Now I know what you're thinking, after all this, you desperately want a tour of CC's central clubhouse.  All I can say is I'd rather not show you.  You see, this is one of the few clubs in the world that welcomes you by saying, "I'm so sorry that you have to be here, but since you're here, welcome."  Frankly, that's a welcome speech I'd rather not give to you.

Thanks as always for reading.

Straight from the trenches,

DT

Positively Optimistic

Ok, ok, I know... It's been a while, but I have to admit that this week I've been struggling to decide what to write about.  The complete truth is that frankly chemo weeks suck, and every time I sit at my computer to type something out, I seem like a blubbering idiot, or maybe that's just how I look (but I digress).  So this blubbering idiot was trying to figure out how to describe chemo to all of my friends and family without infecting everyone with the blubbering disease, and causing sadness across my network because, if you haven't heard, I'm going to be fine, right?  So for like ten minutes, I decided a funny way to describe how I feel would be to rewrite "We Didn't Start the Fire" by Billy Joel, and make it a list of chemo symptoms...but as I started to do that I realized that my chemobrain wouldn't really let me focus for so long and frankly, it started sounding kind of gross, so I decided to spare you my creative genius.   So here I am on Sunday night, just writing you guys, and asking you to bear with me.  I promise I have lots of stories to tell.  But for today, I just have to confess that I just don't feel very good.  There I said it.  CHEMO SUCKS (I know, not very poetic). I know I'm supposed to be optimistic and keep a good attitude, but the reality is that with each chemo treatment comes a wave of self-doubt, mood swings and good ol' irrationality as your body decides to join the olympic gymnastics team in its quest for gold without your permission, which sometimes, to be frank, makes you want to hurl your good attitude out the window.  I wish I could say it was different, but the truth is that by the end of the week, your nerves are shot and you're just exhausted.  So it's no surprise when the blubbering idiot makes her grand entrance and starts shaking every tear right out of you.  Now here's the thing.  Just because blubbering idiot has decided to park herself on my sofa and sit there and feel sorry for herself does not mean that all of you have to worry.  You see, my good attitude, which I admit took a bit of a beating today, has climbed back through my window is staring at me right this very minute from across the room, planning its strategy to jump back in (resilient little sucker).  So don't worry about this blubbering idiot.  She's just getting rid of some toxins while her good attitude recoups its energy and stages a comeback.

Thanks as always for reading.

Straight from the trenches,

DT (aka the Blubbering Idiot)    

Two Trips to L.A. (Part II)

So after much deliberation, negotiation and discussion, I finally made it to L.A., on one condition, that I fly first class (twist my arm dad).  You see, even though my oncologist gave me the green light, my family was fearful that I'd contract a rare disease from the recycled air on the airplane.  Disregarding my family's concerns, last Friday, I made my second trip West this year to say goodbye to David.

Now, considering my state the last time I went out to L.A., I promised myself that this time, I would hold it together and actually cheer up my grandmother.  Learning my lesson from my last trip, instead of watching Celebrity Rehab, I watch two comedies on my way out (thank you first class), and dug deep to pull out my sunniest personality (for those of you who know me well, you know this cynical sarcastic chic has to dig pretty deep for sunny).  Also, using the tricks that I learned from Mademoiselle FACE on the day I shaved my head, upon my arrival, I spent 20 minutes meticulously applying makeup so that I would arrive at my grandmother's house looking naturally refreshed and healthy (let's just say that I have a new found respect for blush).  Finally, in order to be positive that the Big C did not cast a shadow on this trip, I booked myself a hotel so that no one would have to see me bald or popping any pills (admittedly, my grandmother initially resisted this, but in the end, I think she knew this was best for both of us).

Now, since I'm now officially a first class traveler (thanks dad), I booked myself a room at the swank new hotel, The London.  For anyone traveling to L.A., I highly recommend it.  Every room is equipped with a large seating area, balcony, table and desk, and boasts a bar with fine liquors such as Patron, Belvedere and Bombay Sapphire.  Unfortunately, even though I was treated by the staff like a first class guest, I just couldn't seem to mask my coach class etiquette.  Not only did I insist on taking my own bag up to my room (brilliant for someone who is in physical therapy and is not supposed to carry more than 10 pounds), but I also forgot to tip the valet the first time I picked up my rental car.  Now all of this I blame on my grief and preoccupation with my family, but then my lack of first classiness (yes, that's a technical term) came pouring through.  Now I only tell you this for the sake of full disclosure (and because things have gotten a little heavy lately), but you have to promise not to judge me.

So most of my trip I spent hanging out with my grandmother, listening to her muse over her life filled with memories.  Nevertheless, I managed to squeeze in a couple of dinners with some friends, since my grandmother's only desire was that I enjoy myself during my visit (I swear, those were her words).  So at her bequest, I got all dressed up to meet Lawless for dinner at AOC (great tapas restaurant with an eclectic wine list).  There I was, waiting for the valet at my hotel to pull the car around.  Now, I promise I hadn't take any pills, had anything to drink or done anything impair my judgment or ability to handle heavy machinery, and I swear, it was dark outside, so when I noticed that the car I had gotten into wasn't mine, well, I mean it could happen to anyone.  Yes, you guessed it.  I got into the wrong car.  As I turned on the ignition, I noticed that something was off.   I didn't remember that the dashboard backlight was red... wait a second, I didn't remember drinking a Diet Coke... WAIT A SECOND... I NEVER DRINK DIET COKE.  Can you imagine?  Thank God I didn't drive off.  That's all I needed.  I can imagine the headline now.  IDIOT DRIVES INTO THE SUNSET WITH STRANGER'S CAR... INCARCERATED FOR GRAND THEFT AUTO.  Well, as I got out of the car, I put on my widest smile, as I told the valet about my teeny tiny mistake.  The valet was very nice (very first class) and said, "Don't worry, you're not the first person this has happened to.... actually... I think you are."  Um... is it TMI to tell valet guys about chemobrain?  Anyway, all's well, that ends well, since amidst the confusion, I forgot to tip the valet AGAIN!  Hey, I'm coach class and proud of it!

Well, I would love to tell you that my story ends there, but the following night I truly hit the jackpot when I arrived at Foxtail (new L.A. hotspot opened by Top Chef's very own Antonia) to meet my friends Sports Diva and Cartoonist.  I swear I left my hotel thinking I looked very chic in my white Seven jeans and black and white striped top (very mod).   WHO KNEW OUR SERVER WOULD BE WEARING THE SAME SHIRT!!!  Now luckily, they didn't make me get up and start running dishes from the kitchen, but as the server smirked at me, I couldn't help but feel my first classiness slip away.

Overall, even with the little embarrassments, my second trip to L.A. was a success.  Not only did I manage to relieve some of my grandmother's anxiety related to me, but I was able to return the favor she gave to me back in March... the feeling that you're not alone and even if the worst happens you can get through it.  Suddenly you can cope.

Thanks as always for reading.

Straight from the trenches.

DT

Two Trips to L.A. (Part I)

So the last time I tried to catch everyone up, we left off with me standing at the radiologist office next to a suitcase, grappling with the realization that I probably had cancer.  Oh yeah, and I had just callously and coldly told the radiologist that my mother was not ok, after she had tried to comfort me.  Ok, my response was a bit cold, but honestly woman, READ THE FILE!!!  Ok, ok, honestly, I'm not angry.  That's the last I'll say of it, but honestly.....

Anyway, I digress.  So there I was, on the street, crying on the phone with my cousin explaining to him, well, trying to convey that I was ok through my tears (he saw right through it), with my suitcase, waiting for a cab to go to L.A.  My cousin, Dr. D, tried to convince me not to go...to stay with him and his wife, Mamasita, so that I wouldn't be alone and so that we could hang out.  Well, since I was so ok, I decided to go anyway.  I mean, that's exactly what I needed.  To get away, as fast as I could.  To go to Lalaland, frolic in the cancer causing sun and just forget that I had just been told that I probably had cancer.  Yup, that's what I was going to do.  And that's what my brilliant self did.  I got in a cab with tears the size of grapes and made my way to JFK.  As I got to the airport, I managed to calm myself down and convince myself that this little excursion would be the best thing for me.  I would hang out with my grandma (who I absolutely could not tell, will tell you why in a sec), and then see some friends.  the perfect distraction.  Well, the one thing I didn't calculate into the equation was that a 5 and 1/2 hour plane ride was the perfect amount of time to let my thoughts fester and percolate so that I could conjur up every possible permutation of tragedy and convince myself that at this very moment, I had cancer in my pinky toe and was going to die.  (Keep in mind that no one had actually told me that I had cancer yet.)  On top of that, my genius self decided to tune my little satellite tv to watch the Celebrity Rehab marathon on VH1.  Umm....hello numbskull.  Sitting in a confined space in the sky, watching other people weep and moan about their addictions and personal problems is not the way to make yourself forget your problem. (Cancer tip #1:  When trying not to freak out and stay calm, watch Comedy Central)  Nope, basically, I was sitting having a nervous breakdown right in front of the Asian couple sitting next to me, trying to act like I wasn't a basketcase by looking out the window and occasionally smiling at them.  I'm sure my red eyes and mascara running down my face didn't give me away at all.  Anyway, to make a long story short, when I landed in L.A., I had officially made myself sick.  

When I arrived at my friend, Lawless', apartment, I was in a complete state.  I was so benevolent that I greeted her by running to her bathroom to get sick and then unceremoniously blurting out that I think I had cancer.  Now normally I stay with my grandmother when I come to L.A., but this time, she asked me to stay with someone else because David (my grandfather) wasn't feeling well.  Well, as I progressively deteriorated in front of Lawless, I finally made the fateful call to my grandmother and meekly asked, "can I stay with you tonight?  My stomach's not right and I just need to be with you."  After convincing everyone that I could drive (funny how psychosematic symptoms can be turned on and off at your mind's whim), I sped my way to my grandmother's house to see if maybe, being near her, I could pull myself together and silence the voice in my head that kept repeating over and over again that I was going to die.  

Now to take you back a bit.  The original reason that I had booked this trip to L.A. was to cheer up my grandmother, who was feeling a bit down since her husband hadn't been feeling well.  Instead, I arrived a complete disaster, needing to share this enormous weight that had suddenly landed on my shoulders, but knowing in my heart, that my grandmother was one of the two people that I absolutely could not tell, at least not until I knew for certain what was happening.  You see, my grandmother's life has been marked with loss.  Not only did she lose my mother to cancer, but she also lost my aunt and grandfather (whom I never met) to cancer.  More specifically, although my mother managed to conquer breast cancer, my aunt met a different fate.  After years of sparring with her disease, my aunt finally faltered the same season that my mother was diagnosed with lung cancer.  Fun right?  Well, considering the history, I simply didn't have the heart to tell my grandmother, that me, the one who had flown out to cheer her up, had been marked with the same disease that took her two daughters and her first husband.  I mean, honestly, how much can one woman take.  But there I was, a nervous mess, standing in her bathroom shaking, repeating over and over again, "I can't tell you grandma, I can't tell you what's wrong.  I just can't..." until finally, I gave into her gentle coaxing and said, "I had a test, and I may have cancer."

Now I don't know where my grandmother gets her ability to stay calm and collected in a crisis, but rather than joining me in my nervous spiral, my grandmother simply put her hands on my shoulder, looked me straight in the eye and said, "Dalia, you don't know anything yet, and even if it's the worst, we'll get through it.  Now calm down and let's have a cup of tea to calm your stomach, and just know, you can always tell me anything.  That's what I'm here for."  And that's all it took.  Suddenly, I was calm again.  Suddenly, I could cope

As always, thanks for reading.

Straight from the trenches.

DT